Go Get Lost

I don't know how to describe the emotion. It's mostly disappointment but there's a pinch of disbelief involved as well. It's like coming home one day to a house full of friends and family shouting surprise but rather than an unexpected birthday party they have decided on a very confusing way to begin an intervention. That's how I felt when we parked at Kenosha Pass during peak fall colors.

For every golden aspen tree on the hillside there was a person there to see them. Cars were parked along the highway for a quarter mile on either side leading up to the long overflowing parking lot for Kenosha Pass. This was a place I had driven through countless times on the way to the Gunnison National Forest which is my temporary home during autumn peak. Having seen the sign so many times I eventually googled the pass that led deep into the aspen carpeted hills on either side of the road and soon after added it to my hiking to do list.

However, peak color around Kenosha occurs much earlier than out around Crested Butte and Aspen in the expansive Gunnison National Forest. So when I would drive through on my way out west for their peak season, there were only a few bright orange spots left at Kenosha and a handful of cars along the road. It would be like driving past an NFL stadium on a Tuesday versus a Sunday. That sunny Saturday afternoon in September was the Super Bowl for leaf enthusiasts at Kenosha Stadium.

The trailhead was down a long dirt road with a disheveled barbwire fence on either side. An old railroad track hid in the overgrown brush that led to a small pond in the foreground of a beautiful mountain vista. Littered between the rustic fence posts, dried grasses and rusted rails were families in pressed khakis and warm toned sweaters posing for pictures. As my hiking companion, Allen, and I wove through the crowd in our street urchin hiking apparel we felt out of place searching for the hiking trail.

The long driveway lined on either side with cars was a frenzy of leaf peepers. Those that hadn't hired a photographer for the day were posing for cell phone photos pointing at the sun soaked yellow canvas behind them as if the viewers wouldn't notice it or were curious why the person had stopped to take the picture. As Allen and I maneuvered the obstacle course of selfie takers, our backs undoubtedly now littering the internet, the crowd grew thicker as we pushed deeper.

When we finally entered forest along the dirt driveway leading to another packed parking lot, the trees closed down the available space and created an uneasy claustrophobic feeling amongst the crowd. The families and couples that had finished up in the plains were now posing in the aspens for this years Christmas card. There was a traffic jam at the trailhead behind a line of strollers struggling with the off-road incline. I couldn't tell if we were hiking outside in the mountains or trying to enter a Target on Black Friday.

Lambeau, my horse sized goldendoodle was no happier than I was waiting on the crowd to dissipate. A few dogs wandered past but the mosh pit prevented Lambeau from saying hi, instead he began cleaning the faces of any child within licking distance. My living embodiment of Snuffleupagus hates car rides but loves the outdoors time it typically results in so after the long winding drive and still on leash after 15 minutes of walking, his excitement would lead to some trampled toddlers unless we found some space soon.

The trail widened and we were able to leave the stroller pushers behind still fighting with the rocky grade in their penny loafers. The families with young kids were next. Not being able to see the end of the trail, the adults with children hanging all over them were giving up halfway up the first hill. The rest of the best dressed weren't interested in working for their pictures and just like that, after 10 minutes of hiking, the trail was clear. The white noise of mass conversation that muffled the silence of the forest was gone. The only sound now was that of rustling leaves and footsteps.

I set Lambeau free and he trotted ahead in search of new smells as Allen and I increased our pace trying to build some distance from the chaos behind us. A few deep breaths of the autumn scented mountain air relieved my anxiety from the clustered driveway and the golden canopied hike I was hoping for began.

The few hikers we met along the trail were dressed in similar attire to our own. The crisp dressed families had all settled for the scenery nearest their cars and everyone that escaped the hoard had the same relieved look as if they had just survived the slowest pack of zombies. There was a little assurance shared between the hikers too as most of us had questioned the legitimacy of the trail after passing a handful of babies dressed like old time caddies. Once we pressed past the welcome center it was clear the majority of visitors were content with the view from the road.

While the initial view was spectacular with the perfect mountain reflections in the placid ponds and climbing aspen groves, the feeling of being alone, surrounded by gold was surreal. I have no gauge for distance or time while hiking. It's hard to keep a travel log while constantly stopping to explore the world through a lens. Based on how long it felt to escape the mob of leaf peepers in the parking lot, we had roughly walked 40 miles before Allen and I perched on a log overlooking a valley, beer in hand and took in the moment.

The leaves were changing and the ground was beginning to collect them but the weather had not accepted the new season just yet. We had found an amazing view to stare at as we allowed our bodies to slow down on the sweat production. With the sun beating on our backs, our cool sour beers hit the spot as we recharged. Lambeau found a patch of shade to lay in where he could cool down and still get attention as I continuously had to scold him for eating grass. Every time I would yell his name he would look up chewing his last bite with a snarky smile as if to say "what are you going to do about it" before surveying for his next mouthful.

It was peaceful on the hillside as we studied the patches of green and yellow aspens that dotted the valley below. Occasionally another hiker would pass behind us but for the most part we had found a quiet place to relax where we could still enjoy the changing of the seasons without any distractions. I began to think about all the people that wouldn't get this secluded moment. Their entire experience of this place was surrounded by cars and tourists and crying babies. They would never hear the silence, allow their minds to slow down, and let nature slowly lift away their stress.

When you can get away from distractions, the moment feels more personal. There is a deeper connection with nature when you can focus on the scene rather than the other people around you. The three of us wandered off trail for a bit to hike a ridge hoping for a view from an overlook with no luck. As we made our way back down we stopped for another moment to soak in the views when I heard a crack behind us. My assumption was another hiker was using us to find the main trail again but when I turned around everything was still. The stillness held long enough for me to start questioning my memory of hearing the sound. I fought the doubt long enough to see an impatient head pop out from behind a pine tree. A deer had spotted us as it made its way through the brush. Three more would appear from behind the tree after deciding we weren't a threat. You know you've immersed yourself enough when nature sneaks up, unaware of your presence.

Had everyone that parked at Kenosha Pass that afternoon wandered beyond the trailhead I don't know how far we would have had to hike before we found a moment to enjoy the scenery. I hope those people look back at their pictures next year and get lost in the mountains of gold behind them and wonder what it's like in there. To be lost in a world of change, surrounded by silence, focusing on the details that make the experience you went hunting for is worth far more than any picture to me. Everyone should have an appreciation for that experience, a fascination for nature and a desire to get lost in it.